


Werewolf

by saintsybil



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 06:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29713143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsybil/pseuds/saintsybil
Summary: "Miles Upshur is dead in the way a vase of flowers is."Miles and Waylon are on the run. Murkoff wants both of their heads on steaks. They want freedom, life, and a way to keep the ones they love safe. The Walrider living in Miles' blood makes this complicated.
Relationships: Waylon Park/Miles Upshur
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Werewolf

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Long time no see. Is the Outlast fandom still active? If you are, I love you. Have a good day.

Miles Upshur is dead, but in the way a vase of flowers is. The petals still take in sunlight and the stem, though cut, still takes in water. Miles’ heart still beats, and his veins still flow with blood.

But, like his mother pouring mouthwash into the water keeping those roses alive even a day longer, Miles’ veins flow with something other than blood.

He glows, almost. The fruit of Dr. Wernicke's labor owns him, his body. But Miles is still in there, clawing at the walls of flesh and bone, and sometimes he breaks through.

“I hate you.” That's the first thing that leaves his lips when he comes to. He's on the floor, a gash in his forehead, and only one voice in his throat.

Waylon can't blame him. He has him tied to the hotel radiator with the two neckties he owns like a werewolf in a horror movie.

“You gave me a black eye.” Is all he can muster in reply, looking at his arms where the black is fading, pulsing with his own blood.

“That thing did. Not me.” He coughs, spitting blood onto the carpet. “Untie me, Park.”

“No.” He looks pissed, just as pissed as he was before he managed to wrangle him into the situation he's currently in, and he doesn't wanna risk the actual Miles attacking him. “You're still mad.”

“Fuck you.” He spits.

“Exactly.” Waylon spit back.

Cut to a week before, Waylon Park is shaking and bleeding on the carpeted floor of the administration block of Mount Massive Asylum. His heart is beating in his ears and feels like its about to lurch out his throat like a spooked frog.

In front of him sat the mangled corpse of his superior, one Jeremy Blaire. He's covered in his blood too.

The thing that just tore him apart right in front of his eyes looks like something you'd see out of the corner of your eye, a glimpse of some dirty clothes on a chair you think is a person for a split second. But it's there, in the center of Waylon's vision, swallowed in smoke and smelling of coppery blood and ash.

He knows it's the walrider. He saw it himself, bodiless and roaming the halls of the asylum as he tried to escape.

But now it holds more of a solid form.

The smoke fades and to the ground drops a man. He has brown, greasy hair and several gunshot wounds to the chest. For a second, Waylon assumes the man is dead, but he begins to move.

And for a moment, Miles also believes he's dead. It's a familiar scene, staring up at a broken glass window into the admin block, laying on his back on a pile of broken glass.

His head hurts. He's so incredibly thirsty and his head is pounding.

Then he remembers everything in between and sits up, realizing he's no longer in the underbelly of the asylum.

Then he sees the blood.

Then he sees the bullet holes in his chest.

He looks at Park, almost desperately, before fainting back onto the carpet.


End file.
